Summary: Jack Abbot gets drunk. This is rare. This is unexpected. This is apparently also how you end up standing at your bedroom window in Pittsburgh, staring down at your husband while he recites Shakespeare on the lawn like a very handsome, very intoxicated theater kid with excellent lung capacity. He is romantic. He is committed. He is loud. You are in pajamas. The neighbors may never recover. Eventually, you get him inside, get him sitting on the edge of the bed, and attempt to help him into sweatpants while he becomes deeply concerned about your honor, your reputation, and the fact that his legs “don’t match.” Jack Abbot is steady under pressure. Drunk Jack Abbot is apparently one balcony away from a community noise complaint.
Warnings: married Jack Abbot x Reader, drunk Jack, alcohol use, established relationship, romantic comedy chaos, Shakespeare recitation, public embarrassment, Pittsburgh setting, responsible spouse caretaking, suggestive humor, changing clothes while drunk, prosthetic leg removal handled casually and respectfully, soft domestic intimacy, dramatic husband behavior.
Author's Note:
This one is for everyone who has ever wondered what would happen if Jack Abbot got drunk enough to become both romantic and theatrical. The answer is Shakespeare. Outside your window. At night. You have to retrieve your husband before the neighbors start calling in noise complaints, then get him upstairs, undressed, into sweatpants, prosthetic off, and safely into bed while he behaves like a scandalized Victorian man being compromised by his own legal wife.
He is dramatic.
He is devoted.
He is very lucky he is cute.
Xoxo, Del
You were asleep when the first little tap woke you up.
At least, you were pretty sure you had been asleep. It was the heavy kind of sleep you earned after two back-to-back shifts, a shower hot enough to steam the whole mirror, and half an episode of a show you absolutely could not remember choosing.
The bedroom was dark. The house was quiet. The sheets smelled like laundry detergent and Jack’s shampoo because he had a habit of showering, crawling into bed with damp hair, and pretending he was not actively ruining your pillowcases.
Another tap near the glass.
Tiny.
Sharp.
Distinct.
You opened one eye.
For a second, you thought it was weather. Pittsburgh did weird things at night sometimes. Wind. Branches. Rain pattering sideways against the glass.
Then a third sound.
Tap.
A pause.
Tap tap.
You stared at the ceiling.
“What the fuck.” you whispered to no one.
From outside, faint but unmistakable, came a man’s voice.
“But soft.”
Your eyes widened.
Oh my god.
“But soft,” the voice repeated, louder this time. “What light through yonder—yonder—fuck.”
You sat up so fast the comforter slipped to your waist.
There was a muffled shout from outside, followed by laughter. Loud, wheezing, helpless laughter.
Robby.
You threw the covers back, crossed the room, and shoved the curtain aside.
Your husband was standing in the front yard.
Jack Abbot, attending physician, homeowner, allegedly grown man, was in the grass beneath your bedroom window with his jacket half-zipped, his hair a disaster, one shoulder slightly lower than the other, as if balance were a concept he respected but did not currently possess.
One hand was braced against his chest.
The other held what looked like a fistful of gravel from the edge of the driveway.
On the sidewalk behind him stood Robby, bent almost in half, one hand planted on his own knee while he laughed hard enough to shake. He looked drunk in the reckless, sparkly-eyed way that meant he was going to make every bad decision worse on purpose.
Shen leaned against the mailbox with the loose, happy posture of a man who was buzzed enough to be philosophical and rapidly approaching drunk enough to consider himself useful.
Crus stood near the curb beside his car, arms folded, completely sober and spiritually exhausted.
Jack saw your face appear behind the glass.
Everything in him lit up.
“Lady,” he said.
You blinked down at him.
Robby made a noise like a balloon losing air.
“Lady?” you repeated, mostly to yourself.
Jack lifted his chin with tremendous dignity. “Lady in the window.”
Crus looked up at you and mouthed, “I am so sorry.”
You unlocked the window. “Jack—”
Outside, Jack was already winding up again.
You pushed the window open.
A tiny piece of driveway gravel sailed through the gap and hit you softly in the chest.
For one perfect second, no one moved.
You looked down at the pebble where it bounced off your sweatshirt and landed on the floor.
Then you looked back out the window.
Jack stood in the yard with his hand still raised, his face draining of every ounce of drunken triumph. “Oh no.”
Robby slapped both hands over his mouth.
Shen went very still against the mailbox.
Crus closed his eyes like he had expected disaster, but was still disappointed by its form.
Jack took one horrified step backward. “I struck my lady.”
“You threw a pebble,” you said.
“I struck her.” Jack turned on Robby, devastated. “Why did you let me throw rocks at her?”
Robby’s eyes widened. “I did not authorize the courtship rocks.”
Jack looked at Robby, confused, “They weren’t your idea?”
“No!” Robby exclaimed as if he had been accused of first-degree murder.
Crus pointed at Jack. “They were your idea.”
Jack looked back up at you, appalled by himself. “I would never harm you.”
You press your lips together in an attempt to stop your smile, “I know, Jack.”
His gaze dropped to your sweatshirt.
Then his expression changed.
Just slightly. Concern stayed there. Guilt stayed there. But something else arrived.
Something drunker. Stupider.
Very much your husband.
Jack squinted. “Did that go down your shirt?”
You stared at him.
Robby inhaled sharply.
Crus shook his head.
Jack lifted one hand, very serious and very helpful. “I can get it for you.”
The sidewalk exploded.
“Absolutely not,” Crus said.
Robby bent fully at the waist, laughing so hard he nearly folded himself in half. “Chaperone! They need a chaperone! This is improper!”
Shen lifted one finger, swaying with grave importance. “A matter of decorum has presented itself.”
Jack’s face snapped from hopeful to offended. “I was being medically helpful.”
“You were offering to put your hand up her shirt,” Crus said.
Jack looked deeply wounded. “I am a doctor.”
“You are drunk,” Crus replied, rolling his eyes.
Jack frowned, as if this were technically accurate but spiritually irrelevant.
You picked the tiny pebble up from the floor and held it between two fingers. “It’s the size of a Tic Tac.”
Jack’s eyes locked onto it. His shoulders dropped in relief. Then he winced all over again.
“No more rocks!” he announced.
Robby straightened just enough to salute. “End of an era.”
Jack looked back up at you, still guilty, still giddy, still completely obsessed. “Are you sure it didn’t go down your shirt?”
“Jack.” You're warned, fighting a smile.
Jack’s brow furrowed, “Respectfully.”
“No.” You told him.
He nodded immediately, solemn as a vow. “Right. Boundaries.”
Crus pointed at him. “Hands where I can see them, Romeo.”
Jack lifted both hands. One was still full of gravel.
You raised your eyebrows.
He looked at the gravel, horrified all over again, and opened his hand. The tiny rocks were scattered into the grass.
“The rocks are retired,” Jack announces.
Shen nodded. “A noble sacrifice.”
You should have closed the window then. You should have told him to come inside. You should have reminded him that neighbors existed and that Crus looked one stern glance away from calling time of death on the evening.
Instead, your eyes drifted toward the porch.
The tiny blue light above the doorbell camera blinked steadily in the dark.
Recording.
Oh.
Oh, this was a gift.
You glanced toward the corner of the garage, where the driveway camera sat angled toward the front yard. Also recording. You folded your arms on the windowsill and tried very hard to make your face neutral.
“Go on, Romeo,” you called down.
Crus’s head snapped toward you. “Do not encourage him.”
Too late.
Jack’s face opened like you had handed him a sword and a reason.
Robby pointed up at you, delighted. “She’s making him worse.”
“She appreciates theater,” Jack said.
“You don’t know theater,” Crus said.
Jack gave him a wounded look. “I know my lady.”
Robby made a strangled sound. “Your lady?”
Jack turned on him. “Yes.”
Crus stared at him. “Your wife.”
Jack froze.
Then, very slowly, he looked back up at your window. “We’re married?”
Your smile started before you could stop it. “We are.”
His whole face lit. Not soft, exactly. Not sad. Not even sentimental.
Just pure, stunned delight.
Like someone had woken him in the middle of the night and told him he had won the best thing in the world, then pointed to you as proof.
“Fuck yeah,” Jack murmured.
Robby doubled over. “Oh, he’s happy about it.”
Shen nodded, solemn and wobbly. “As he should be.”
Crus rubbed a hand over his face. “He has been happy about it for years.”
Jack ignored all of them.
He was looking up at you again, bright-eyed and entirely too pleased with himself.
“My wife,” he said, testing it out.
You nodded, “Yes.”
His grin widened. “Fuck yeah.”
“Jack,” Crus said, “you cannot just keep rediscovering your marriage.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Watch me.”
Then he lifted one hand toward your window again, suddenly possessed by the urgent need to continue.
“But soft.”
Robby wheezed. “He’s going back in.”
Jack cleared his throat with the unearned confidence of a man about to ruin literature.
“But soft,” he repeated. “What light through yonder…”
He frowned.
The line had apparently vanished.
“What light through yonder…” Jack tried again, squinting at your window like the answer might be written on the glass. “Through yonder… house hole.”
Robby howled.
Crus leaned towards Jack, “Window.”
“I know,” Jack snapped, then looked back up at you and immediately softened. “Window.”
You leaned your chin into your hand, trying so hard not to smile too wide because every tiny bit of encouragement made him more powerful.
Jack saw anyway. Of course he did.
His grin went crooked and giddy. “She likes this.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Crus said.
“I do,” you called down.
Crus looked up at you. “You are creating a monster.”
You shrugged, “He’s already my monster.”
Jack’s mouth fell open.
Robby slapped Shen’s arm. “Oh, that got him.”
Jack stared up at you, dazzled. “I’m yours?”
“You’re mine.” You confirmed.
He turned toward the guys, almost vibrating with joy. “I’m hers.”
“We know, you’re married to her. ” Crus said.
Jack looked back up at you, needing it from the only source that mattered. “I am?”
You were laughing now. “You are.”
Jack grinned, “Fuck yeah.”
Then he remembered his mission.
His expression shifted back into concentration, but it was different now. Less performance for performance’s sake and more desperate translation. Like his drunk brain had decided regular words were not enough for what you looked like in that window, wearing his sweatshirt, smiling down at him with sleep-warm eyes and messy hair.
He did not know Shakespeare.
You were sure of that.
Jack had once referred to a sonnet as “one of those fancy rectangles.” He had complained about mandatory high school English with the same tone he used for hospital printer jams. He did not casually quote old plays.
But apparently, somewhere inside him, beneath the whiskey and whatever terrible thing Robby had talked him into ordering, a few broken pieces of Romeo and Juliet had survived.
And tonight, because he was drunk and in love and staring up at you, his brain had decided those pieces were the only tools worthy of the job.
“What light through yonder window…” Jack paused, fought for the word, and then looked offended by his own mouth. “Fucks.”
Crus sighed. “Breaks.”
Jack’s brow furrowed deeply, “That’s what I said.”
“You said fucks.” Crus corrected.
Jack glared at him with a frown, “Emotionally, I said breaks.”
Shen nodded. “I understood him.”
“You are not helping,” Crus said.
Jack ignored them, his gaze locked on you.
“What light through yonder window breaks,” he said again, mangled but determined. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”
He stopped. His brow furrowed. “No.”
You tilted your head. “No?”
Jack shook his head with deep seriousness. “Not Juliet.”
Robby made a tiny dying sound.
Jack pointed up at you, eyes bright and unfocused and absolutely full of you. “My lady is the sun.”
Your breath caught around your laugh.
Jack looked frustrated now. Not with you. Never with you. With the words. With the fact that he had this whole impossible feeling in his chest and only scraps of half-remembered Shakespeare, curse words, and driveway gravel to work with.
“You are,” he insisted. “You’re the sun. And the moon is—”
He looked up, squinting into the dark sky. “The moon is fucked.”
Crus exhaled through his nose. “That is not Shakespeare.”
“It is now,” Shen said.
Jack kept looking at you.
“You’re more beautiful than the fucking moon,” he said, rough and certain. “And I don’t know if the stupid moon knows that, but I do.”
You pressed your lips together.
There he was.
Your ridiculous husband. Your drunk, swaying, gravel-holding husband, publicly destroying Shakespeare on your lawn because he loved you so much he needed bigger words than his own and kept breaking the bigger words in half.
Robby cupped both hands around his mouth. “Say more about the moon!”
Jack whipped around. “Do not tell me how to court my lady.”
Robby gasped. “Your lady?”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”
Crus sighed. “Your wife.”
Jack immediately turned back toward the window. “We’re married?”
You nodded. “We are.”
That joy hit him all over again. “Fuck yeah.”
Shen sighed dreamily. “Every time, it lands.”
“It has happened four times,” Crus muttered.
Jack was not listening. He had apparently reloaded the romance. He took one dramatic step closer to the house and nearly tripped over the landscaping.
Crus moved automatically, one hand half-raised.
Jack caught himself and pointed down, “Sabotage.”
“That is a shrub,” Crus said.
“A treacherous shrub.” Jack glared down at the shrub.
Robby staggered a step and caught himself on Shen’s shoulder. “This is the best night of my life.”
“You threw up behind the bar,” Shen reminded him.
“Second-best night of my life.” Robby amended.
Jack cleared his throat.
The yard went quiet.
He looked up at you, full of giddy purpose.
“Tell them to leave,” Jack said, without looking away from you. “I’m courting you.”
You leaned against the window frame. “You live here.”
Jack visibly brightened. “Then let me in.”
“Use your key.” You replied.
Jack patted one pocket. Then the other. Then his jacket. Then his jeans again, with increasing distress.
His face fell. “I left it in the carriage.”
Shen lifted one hand. “He means the car.”
“The Honda,” Robby added.
Crus pointed toward the curb. “The car he escaped from at a red light.”
“It was stopped,” Robby said.
Crus turned to him, “At a red light.”
“That’s stopped,” Robby argued.
Jack ignored them. He was still staring up at you, wounded. “I don’t have my key.”
You looked down at him, “I can see that.”
“I would like to come inside.” He said, lower lip pressing out.
You gestured down at the lawn. “You were courting me.”
“I can court you indoors,” Jack replied instantly.
Robby’s head snapped up. “Oh,” he said.
Crus immediately said, “No.”
Robby pointed at Jack, drunk and thrilled with his own incoming damage. “Wait. If you’re courting a lady, you need a chaperone.”
Jack froze.
You covered your mouth.
Robby nodded, warming to the bit. “Historically. Otherwise, it’s improper.”
Shen pushed off the mailbox, eyes bright with buzzed seriousness. “There would be whispers. Her honor would be ruined amongst high society.”
Jack went completely still. Then his face changed.
Horror.
Betrayal.
Moral outrage.
“No.” He breathed.
Shen blinked. “No?”
Jack pointed at him. “You take that back.”
Shen looked genuinely confused. “The whispers?”
“The honor,” Jack answered.
Robby whispered, delighted, “Oh my god.”
Jack lifted his chin. “I will duel Shen for inferring an insult to her honor.”
Crus’s mouth tightened. “Implying.” He stepped forward. “No one is dueling anyone.”
Jack whipped around and pointed to him, “Don’t correct my vows of violence.”
“I was defending her honor,” Shen said, pressing a hand to his chest.
“You said it could be ruined,” Jack argued.
Shen looked over to Robby, “By Robby’s fake chaperone rules.”
Robby held up both hands. “I stand by the rules.”
Crus pointed at him. “You are not helping.”
Jack looked back up at you, devastation written all over his drunk, beloved face. “He spoke of your honor.”
You were laughing so hard that you had to grip the window frame. “He was being dramatic.”
“I’m being dramatic.” Jack gestured to himself. “He was being defamatory.”
Shen turned to Crus. “Is he using legal words correctly?”
“No,” Crus answered.
Robby nodded. “I think he’s doing great.”
Jack took one unsteady step toward Shen.
Crus moved fast, catching the back of Jack’s jacket in one fist. “Absolutely not.”
Jack kept pointing. “Pistols. At dawn.”
Shen straightened, solemn and swaying. “I accept.”
Crus rounded on him. “You do not.”
“For the lady’s honor,” Shen said.
Jack gasped. “Do not speak of the lady.”
Shen looked up at you, then back to Jack. “You challenged me on behalf of the lady.”
“She is my—”
Jack stopped.
His eyes widened like he had almost said something important and lost it.
Robby saw the opening.
“Wife,” he supplied.
Jack turned immediately toward your window. “She is?”
You nodded, grinning helplessly. “I am.”
The joy detonated across his face. “Fuck yeah.”
Then, without missing a beat, he pointed at Shen again. “But I’ll still duel him.”
“No, you won’t,” Crus said.
Jack turns back to the window, “For her.”
“Jack,” you said, fighting laughter, “baby, I don’t need you to duel Shen.”
Jack looked up at you with enormous sincerity. “You deserve to be defended.”
“I am very defended.” You assure him.
Jack beamed, “By me?”
“Yes.” You answer.
That settled him.
Some of the outrage eased from his shoulders. He looked pleased, softened by the idea that he had done something right. Then he turned back to Shen with one final warning finger. “You’re lucky she is merciful.”
Shen bowed toward your window. “Her mercy is noted.”
Robby tried to bow too, immediately lost his balance, and grabbed Crus’s shoulder. “Long live the lady of the window.”
Crus shoved him upright. “Everybody shut up before the neighbors call the police.”
Jack looked back up at you.
“My lady,” he said softly, then brightened again. “My wife?”
You nodded. “Your wife.”
Jack smiled, “Fuck yeah.”
You were going to save the security footage forever.
Jack’s face shifted suddenly. He had a new thought. That was never good.
He looked back up at you, deeply serious. “Wait.”
“Oh no,” Crus said.
Jack ignored him.
“If I’m courting you,” he said carefully, “does that mean we can’t have sex?”
The entire sidewalk exploded.
Robby made a sound like he had been shot.
Shen turned away, shoulders shaking.
Crus stared up at the sky like he was asking God why he had been assigned this shift.
You pressed your lips together. “Jack.”
“What?” Jack demanded, offended by everyone’s reaction. “I’m asking respectfully.”
You stared at him, “You are yelling in the yard.”
“I need to know the rules.” Jack frowned.
You shook your head, “We’re married.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “We are?”
You stared at him for one beat.
Then you softened, because God help you, it was still so funny. Every single time.
“We are.”
His grin came back, immediate and brilliant. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby crouched on the sidewalk, laughing so hard he had one hand braced against the concrete.
Shen nodded with great emotion. “The sacrament remains intact.”
“Do not help,” Crus said.
Jack looked back up at you, still concerned. “So?”
“So what?” You asked, tilting your head.
Jack frowned deeply, “So what about the chaperone rules?”
You leaned farther out the window. “No chaperone rules.”
Jack looked relieved. Then pleased.
Then a little too pleased.
“But no sex tonight,” you added. “You’re drunk.”
Jack’s expression sobered instantly. Well. As much as it could.
“Right,” he said, nodding hard. “Boundaries.”
“Exactly.” You agreed.
“I respect my lady,” Jack added.
You nodded, “I know.”
“My wife?” He asks, so hopeful.
You smiled. “Your wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” He grinned.
Robby booed from the sidewalk.
Jack spun so fast he almost lost his balance. Crus tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s jacket.
“Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”
Robby pointed at him. “You just checked if she was your wife!”
Jack pointed right back. “And she said yes.”
Shen lifted one finger. “A valid argument.”
Crus muttered, “I hate all of you.”
Jack tilted his head suddenly, studying the side of the house.
Your smile faded a little. You knew that look. It was the look he got when he decided a patient was lying about taking all their antibiotics. The look he got when a vending machine stole his money. The look he got when Robby said something so stupid that Jack had to pause before answering because violence had become a real possibility.
Determination.
“Oh no,” Crus said again.
Jack pointed up at you. “I’m coming up.”
You straightened immediately. “No, you are not.”
Jack nodded enthusiastically, “I am.”
“Jack.” You warned.
He pointed at you, “Romeo climbed.”
Robby, delighted, whispered, “Did he?”
Shen squinted at the house. “I don’t think that’s structurally sound.”
Jack ignored them. “I will climb to you.”
“No,” you said, louder this time.
He looked wounded. “You don’t believe in me?”
“I believe you are drunk.” You replied.
He raised a fist in the air, “For love.”
“For whiskey.” You corrected.
Robby lifted one finger. “And tequila.”
“And tequila,” you add.
Jack nodded solemnly, accepting the record. Then he took a step toward the house.
Crus tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s jacket. “Absolutely not.”
Jack tried to keep walking and got nowhere.
For one ridiculous second, your husband simply leaned forward, legs moving slightly, while Crus held him in place like a misbehaving golden retriever.
Robby lost what little remained of his composure.
Shen put both hands over his mouth.
You slapped a palm against the window frame. “Jack Abbot, stop trying to climb the house.”
Jack looked up at you, betrayed. “I’m courting you.”
You pointed at the lawn, “You can court me from the ground.”
“I’m too far away,” Jack said with a frown.
You sighed, “You are twelve feet away.”
“Exactly,” he said, with heartbreaking seriousness, “it is unbearable.”
And there it was.
The stupid, sweet thing under all the chaos.
You looked down at him.
At your husband, drunk and swaying and ridiculous, held in place by the back of his jacket, still staring up at you like the whole world had narrowed to your face in the window.
You sighed, mostly for show. “Stay there. I am coming down to open the door.”
Jack went very still. Then his whole face lit up. “You’re coming down?”
“Yes.” You confirmed.
His eyes widened, “To me?”
You nodded, “Yes, Jack.”
He turned toward the guys, triumphant. “She’s coming down.”
Robby wiped tears from his eyes. “Yeah, Romeo. Because you tried to scale the house.”
Jack shrugged, “Love requires risk.”
Crus tightened his grip. “Love requires you not making me go into the ER on my night off.”
Shen nodded. “A noble point.”
Jack looked back up at you. “Don’t rush. I’ll wait forever.”
Crus said, “You could not wait through a red light.”
Jack did not miss a beat. “That was different. My lady was in the house.”
Robby opened his mouth.
Jack immediately looked up at you. “Wife?”
You laughed. “Wife.”
Jack nodded, “Fuck yeah.”
You closed the window before he could see what that did to your face. By the time you got downstairs, the front yard had only gotten louder.
You opened the front door just as Robby said, “I still think chaperone rules apply.”
Jack, standing at the bottom of the steps with Crus’s hand still fisted in the back of his jacket, gasped like he had been stabbed. “My wife said no chaperone.”
“I did say that,” you confirmed.
Jack turned.
The second he saw you in the doorway, everything else disappeared from his face.
He looked at you like he had forgotten the house, the street, the guys, the gravel, the moon, the duel, and every failed line of Shakespeare.
“There she is,” he said.
It was quiet.
Too quiet for the amount of chaos that had come before it.
Your smile softened. “Hi, Romeo.”
Jack took one careful step toward you. Crus released his jacket but stayed close, ready.
Jack made it up the first porch step. Then the second.
He stopped in front of you, swaying slightly, eyes warm and unfocused and giddy all over again.
“I was wooing you.”
“I noticed.” You replied.
He leaned in, “Did it work?”
You looked past him at the yard.
Robby was giggling now. Shen was leaning against the mailbox again, smiling like he had witnessed something sacred. Crus stood on the walkway with the dead-eyed patience of a man who had kept three drunk medical professionals alive and received no thanks for it.
Then you looked back at your husband.
At his messy hair. His flushed cheeks. The tiny piece of gravel was still stuck to his palm. The stupid, pleased hope in his face.
“Yes,” you said. “It worked.”
Jack’s smile went bright. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby groaned. “God, marriage is disgusting.”
Jack turned just enough to glare at him. Then he paused.
Slowly, he looked back at you. “We’re married?”
You laughed, unable to help it. “Yes.”
His delight was immediate. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby pointed at him. “See? Disgusting.”
Jack turned back. “You’re alone.”
Robby clutched his chest. “Low blow, Romeo.”
“Go home,” Jack said. “I have been received.”
Crus looked at you. “Please take him.”
You smiled, “I’ve got him. Thank you, Crus.”
Jack immediately leaned toward you, pleased by the words.
You caught him with both hands against his chest. “Shoes off inside. Water. Bed. No climbing anything.”
He nodded seriously. “Boundaries.”
“Exactly.” You agreed.
Robby booed from the sidewalk again.
Jack spun so fast he had to grab the doorframe. “Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”
Then he glanced down at you. “My wife?”
You patted his chest. “Still me.”
“Fuck yeah.”
Shen lifted both hands. “I would never boo boundaries.”
“I still might duel you,” Jack said.
“For defending her honor?” Shen asked.
Jack glared, “For bringing it up.”
Crus hooked a hand around Robby’s arm and started dragging him toward the car. “We’re done.”
Robby waved at you. “Send the security footage!”
Jack froze. Slowly, he turned toward the doorbell camera.
The little blue light blinked back at him.
Then he looked at you. You smiled.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “How long has that been recording?”
“The whole time.” You answered.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Robby screamed from the curb, “Director’s cut!”
Crus shoved him toward the car. “Get in.”
Shen bowed one more time toward you. “Goodnight, lady of the window.”
“Goodnight, Shen.” You called back.
Jack pointed at him. “Respectfully.”
“Respectfully,” Shen agreed.
You slipped your hand around Jack’s wrist and tugged gently. “Inside.”
Jack followed immediately.
The second the door closed behind him, the night noise muffled. The laughter outside faded toward the street. Crus’s car doors opened and shut. Robby shouted something unintelligible. Shen answered with something that sounded like philosophy but was probably nonsense.
Inside, the house was warm and dim.
Jack stood in the entryway, blinking like he had crossed into another realm.
You took the last piece of gravel from his palm.
He looked down at it. “My rock.”
“You’re done with that.” You replied.
His eyes found yours, “It worked.”
“It hit me.” You said.
His face fell all over again. “I know.”
“Very gently.” You added with a smile.
Jack frowned, shaking his head. “I wounded my lady.”
“You booped my sweatshirt with gravel.” You corrected him.
His frown deepened. “Still bad.”
You softened despite yourself and held up the pebble between you. “I’m keeping it.”
Jack stared at it. Then at you. “You are?”
“Yes.” You answered.
His entire expression brightened. “The courtship rock.”
“The courtship rock,” you agreed.
He looked very pleased with himself for about half a second.
Then he looked toward your chest again. “Are we sure it didn’t—”
“Jack.”
He nodded, “Right. Boundaries.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and dropped the pebble into the small ceramic bowl where you usually kept keys.
Jack watched you do it. Then he looked at the bowl. Then at you.
“Do I live here?”
You stepped closer, unzipping his jacket. “Yes, Jack.”
“With you?” He asked.
You pulled the zipper free. “Yes.”
His face lit again, tired and pleased and still so delighted by the answer. “Fuck yeah.”
You laughed under your breath and pushed the jacket off his shoulders. “Arms.”
He obeyed, but only barely. His balance was not great, and he kept watching you like he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away.
You hung his jacket over the railing.
“Shoes,” you said.
Jack looked down at his feet. Then back up at you. “I have shoes on.”
“You do.” You confirmed.
Jack nodded gravely, “Good.”
You guided him to sit on the bottom step.
He dropped heavily, then immediately reached for your hand. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and clumsy. “Are you mad?”
“You threw rocks at our window.” You replied.
Jack tilted his head, “Courtship rocks.”
“You hit me with one.” You countered.
His face crumpled. “My greatest shame.”
“You tried to climb the house.” You added.
Jack looked at you, “For romance.”
“You threatened to duel Shen.” You replied.
Jack sighed deeply, “For your honor.”
You huffed a laugh, “You forgot we were married at least six times.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “But I asked you,” he said.
You looked down at him.
He was smiling up at you, drunk and tired and so pleased with himself for that one piece of logic.
“You did,” you said quietly.
“You know the true things.” He murrmed.
“I do?” You asked.
He nodded gravely. “Wife things.”
You smiled and bent to untie his shoes. “Wife things.”
He brightened. “My wife?”
You looked up at him. “Yes.”
His grin came back, softer now but still giddy. “Fuck yeah.”
And that was the problem with Jack.
Even when he was a public menace with gravel.
Even when he mangled Shakespeare in the front yard.
Even when he almost started an honor duel with Shen, he tried to scale the siding like the house was a castle wall.
He always managed to say one thing that slipped under your ribs and stayed there.
You bent and kissed his forehead.
His eyes closed immediately. “There,” he murmured.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “There?”
He nodded, eyes still closed. “My lady.”
You softened.
Then he opened one eye. “Wife?”
You nodded, “Yes, Romeo. Wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” He grinned.
You got him up the stairs with significant effort. Mostly because Jack was determined to be helpful in ways that were not helpful. He tried to remove his shoes while standing, even though you had already removed them. You stopped him. He tried to take off his shirt halfway up the stairs. You stopped that, too. He paused on the landing to tell you, very sincerely, that the moon had deserved what he said.
By the time you got him into the bedroom, Jack was mostly upright through sheer stubbornness and your hand at his waist.
“Sit,” you said, guiding him toward the edge of the bed.
Jack dropped onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, then looked up at you with enormous sincerity. “Wife voice.”
You paused. “What?”
He pointed at you, swaying slightly even while seated. “You used the voice.”
“I used wife voice.” You confirmed.
His face softened immediately. “Wife?”
You smiled. “Wife.”
His whole expression lit. “Fuck yeah.”
You knelt in front of him and reached for his belt buckle.
Jack looked down, scandalized. “My lady.”
“I’m taking your belt off.” You replied, pulling the leather through the loops.
“My love,” he said, lowering his voice like the room might be bugged by high society, “we are alone.”
“We live together.” You told him.
He gasped softly. “Scandal.”
“Marriage,” you corrected, loosening one shoe.
Jack blinked. Then he looked at you, hopeful. “We’re married?”
You nodded, “Yes, baby.”
“Fuck yeah.” He murmured.
You slipped the belt free, then set it beside the bed. Jack watched the whole process with the solemn focus of a man witnessing a ceremony.
Then his gaze dropped to his legs.
He stared for a second. His brow furrowed. “My legs don’t match.”
You pressed your lips together so you would not laugh directly in his face.
“No,” you said gently. “They don’t.”
Jack looked up at you, eyes wide with drunk discovery. “Did you know?”
“I had noticed.” You answered.
He absorbed that with grave importance. Then nodded once. “Good.”
“Good?”
“You’re observant.” His hand landed clumsily over his heart. “Good wife.”
You pointed at him. “Don’t make good wife sound cute right now.”
Jack smiled, pleased and unrepentant. “My wife.”
“Yes.” You touched his prosthetic side lightly. “Leg?”
He nodded at once, all trust. “Leg.”
That was the thing that always got you.
Not the jokes. Not the ridiculous courtship act. Not even the way he kept rediscovering your marriage like it was the best news anyone had ever given him.
It was the trust.
The way he let you close without bracing for it. The way he let your hands move through a routine that had become as ordinary as turning down the sheets or setting water on the nightstand.
You knew what to do.
You had done it a hundred times.
You eased the fabric out of the way, found the release with practiced fingers, and carefully helped him out of the prosthetic, setting it where he could reach it in the morning.
Jack watched you, quieter now.
For one second, the drunk performance softened at the edges.
“There,” you said.
He looked from the prosthetic to you. “You take good care.”
Your chest warmed. “So do you.”
Jack considered that. Then frowned. “I threw rocks at you.”
“Tiny rocks.” You corrected him.
Jack nodded, “Courtship rocks.”
“One courtship rock.” You replied.
He winced. “My shame.”
You smiled, “You survived it.”
“You were merciful.” He said.
You nodded once, “I was.”
He reached for your hand, warm and clumsy, and squeezed your fingers. “My lady is merciful.”
You smiled. “Your wife is tired.”
His eyes lit again. “Wife?”
You lifted your left hand.
He stared at your rings, then lifted his own hand so you could see his wedding band.
“We’re married,” you said.
Jack’s grin came back, bright and helpless. “Fuck yeah.”
You stood and reached for the button of his jeans.
Jack’s hand flew to his waistband. “My lady!”
You looked up at him.
His eyes were wide and deeply, drunkenly solemn. “My love, you must restrain yourself.”
You inhaled, “Jack.”
“We must consider your honor.” He glanced toward the closed bedroom door, as if Robby might burst in with a chaperone contract. “Your reputation.”
“Jack, baby, we are married.” You reminded him.
He froze. Then slowly turned back to you. “We are?”
You lifted your left hand again and wiggled your fingers.
His eyes locked on your rings. Then you took his left hand and held up his. His wedding band gleamed in the bedside lamplight.
Jack stared at it. Then at yours. Then at you.
His grin spread, slow and delighted. “Fuck yeah.”
“Exactly.” You patted his knee. “So let me help you change before you fall asleep in jeans.”
He considered this. Then nodded gravely. “For comfort.”
“For comfort.” You agreed.
“And marriage.” He added.
You nodded, “And marriage.”
“And not dishonor.” Jack continued.
“No dishonor.” You agreed.
Jack relaxed his hand from his waistband with great dignity. “Proceed.”
Once you had gotten Jack successfully into his sweatpants, you got him water from the bathroom. He drank half of it, made a face like water had personally wronged him, then drank the other half because you raised your eyebrows.
Then you helped him under the covers.
He rolled onto his side and reached for you before you were even in bed.
“No sex,” you said, climbing in beside him. “You’re drunk.”
Jack’s eyes opened with sudden seriousness. “Right. Boundaries.”
“Right.”
Jack nodded gravely, “I respect my lady.”
You nodded, “I know.”
“My wife?” He asked, bright and hopeful.
You smiled into the dark. “Your wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” His arm settled around your waist, heavy and warm. He tucked himself closer, his face pressing into your shoulder, all that theatrical devotion quieting into simple contact.
Outside, Crus’s car finally pulled away.
The house settled again.
You stared into the dark, one hand resting over Jack’s forearm.
His breathing slowed.
Just when you thought he had fallen asleep, he mumbled, barely audible, “Still the sun.”
Your throat tightened. You covered his hand with yours. “Go to sleep, Romeo.”
A pause.
Then, soft and satisfied against your shoulder: “Fuck yeah.”
The Next Day...
Jack woke up to consequences.
The first consequence was pain. His head was splitting. His mouth tasted like old tequila and poor judgment. One of his eyes did not want to open all the way. The room was too bright despite the curtains being mostly closed, and someone had apparently replaced his bones with sandbags.
The second consequence was you.
You were sitting beside him in bed, already showered, wearing leggings and one of his old sweatshirts, sipping coffee with the kind of suspicious cheerfulness that made every instinct in his body go cold.
Jack stared at you through one open eye. “Why are you smiling like that?”
You took a slow sip of coffee. “No reason.”
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then buzzed again. Then again.
Jack closed his eye. “No.”
Your smile widened. “Jack.”
“No.” He said instantly.
You raised a brow, “You should check the group chat.”
“I’m resigning from the group chat,” Jack said.
You shook your head, “You can’t resign from a group chat.”
“I can resign from medicine,” Jack replied.
The phone buzzed again.
Jack groaned and reached for it with the despair of a man approaching his own autopsy report.
The first message was from Robby.
ROMEO ABBOT: THE DIRECTOR’S CUT
Below it was a video.
The thumbnail showed Jack in the front yard, one hand raised toward the bedroom window, mouth open mid-sentence, body angled with what appeared to be tragic nobility.
Jack stared. His stomach dropped. “What,” he said slowly, “is that?”
You leaned closer, bright-eyed. “Art.”
He pressed play.
On the screen, his own drunk voice rang out. “But soft—what light through yonder house hole—”
Crus’s voice corrected, “Window.”
Jack stopped the video. Silence.
You sipped your coffee.
Jack set the phone very carefully on the blanket. “I’m deleting Robby from my life.”
You smiled into your mug, “You also tried to duel Shen.”
His eyes closed. “I need to be buried.”
“You called them courtship rocks.” You added,
He opened one eye. “What?”
You pointed toward the dresser. Sitting atop it, in a tiny ceramic dish, were three pieces of driveway gravel.
Jack stared at them. “You kept them?”
You smiled, “Of course I kept them.”
His face changed, just slightly.
Even hungover, even mortified, he softened.
Then he noticed one pebble sitting separately in the center.
His brow furrowed. “Why is that one in the middle?”
“That’s the one that hit me.” You answered.
Jack stared at you. Then at the pebble. Then back at you. “It hit you?”
“Gently.”
His face went pale. “Where?”
You smiled over the rim of your coffee. “My sweatshirt.”
A memory seemed to crawl through the hangover.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Then closed. “Oh god.”
“You asked if it went down my shirt.” You said, enjoying the memory.
He did not move.
You pressed your lips together. “You offered to get it.”
He pulled the blanket over his face.
From underneath it, muffled and ruined, came, “I was trying to be helpful.”
“You were very respectful when I said no.” You told him.
The blanket lowered just enough for one eye to appear. “I was?”
“You were.” You assured him.
That seemed to make him feel marginally better.
Then his phone buzzed again.
You picked it up before he could stop you. “Oh, good. Robby sent another angle.”
Jack went still. “Another angle?”
“We have the doorbell camera too.” You explained.
His head turned very slowly toward you. “No.”
You nodded, “Oh, yes.”
“You have security footage?” He asks.
“From two angles.” You replied happily.
“Two?”
You nodded again, “Doorbell and driveway. I sent them to Robby.”
Jack lowered himself back onto the pillow and covered his face with both hands.
A long silence. Then, muffled, “I’m leaving.”
“You live here.” You told him.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “With you?”
“Yes.”
He watched you for a beat, hungover and miserable and somehow still hopeful. “We’re married?”
You smiled. “We’re married.”
A slow grin pulled at his mouth. “Fuck yeah.”
You laughed and leaned down to kiss his temple.
He accepted it with a little hum.
Then he muttered, “Did I at least do okay?”
You looked at your husband.
At the man who had jumped out of a car at a red light because he could not stand being two blocks away from you. The man who had thrown rocks at your window, accidentally hit your sweatshirt, threatened an honor duel, tried to climb the house, and rediscovered your marriage with fresh joy every single time.
You brushed your fingers through his hair. “You wooed me.”
Summary: Mateo Diaz keeps work and home separate. No one at the Pitt knows about you, the engagement ring on your finger, or the baby due any day now—until you come through the ambulance bay nine months pregnant, scared, and asking for him.
Warning: pregnancy/labor, water breaking, fall/collapse scare, ED stabilization, emotional panic, protective Mateo, medical setting, birth/newborn fluff.
Masterlist
Requested by: @kitkatrina
I hope I did your vision justice 🫶
The thing about Mateo Diaz is that he is good at drawing lines.
Work is work.
Home is home.
The Pitt gets twelve hours of him at a time. Sometimes more, if the board is ugly and the night refuses to end. The Pitt gets his jokes, his quick hands, his easy smirk, the part of him that can start an IV on a moving target and still have enough attitude left over to annoy a resident.
But home gets the rest.
Home gets the version of him who leaves his shoes by the door because you hate outside germs on the floor. Home gets him rubbing circles into your lower back at two in the morning while you swear his daughter is trying to rearrange your ribs with her feet. Home gets the half-asleep kisses, the grocery lists, the arguments about crib sheets, the quiet pressure of his palm against your belly when she starts kicking like she knows her dad is finally close.
Nobody at work knows about that version.
Nobody knows about you.
Nobody knows that the pretty silver ring on his chain under his scrubs matches the one sitting on your swollen finger. Nobody knows that he has loved you since he was a lanky seventeen-year-old who thought nursing school sounded terrifying and you somehow made him feel like he could survive anything. Nobody knows that he has a bassinet set up on his side of the bed because he insisted, absolutely insisted, that he would be the one getting up at night too.
Nobody knows because Mateo likes it that way.
“You don’t think it’s weird?” you asked once, sitting cross-legged on the couch at seven months pregnant, watching him fold tiny onesies with the intense concentration of a man defusing a bomb.
Mateo looked up at you. “What?”
“That no one at work knows I exist.”
His hands paused over a yellow sleeper covered in little ducks. He looked guilty for half a second before he smoothed it out.
“They know I have a life.”
You snorted. “That is not the same thing.”
“No,” he said, softer. “It’s not.”
You remember him coming to sit beside you then, careful with the couch dip because your hips had been killing you, his hand sliding over your belly like it always did when he needed to remind himself what was real.
“I just don’t want them in it,” he said. “Not because I’m hiding you. I’m not hiding you. I just… the Pitt takes everything if you let it. I need something that’s mine.”
You believed him.
You still believe him.
Right up until tonight.
Tonight, the apartment feels too quiet without him.
You wake up with a sharp, wet warmth between your legs and the immediate, primal sense that something has shifted. For a second, you just lie there, blinking at the dark ceiling, trying to make your brain catch up with your body.
Then another cramp grips low and deep, meaner than the practice contractions you’ve been brushing off for weeks.
“Oh,” you whisper.
The baby rolls hard under your ribs.
“Oh, no. Not now.”
Your hand fumbles for your phone on the nightstand. You call Mateo once. No answer. You call again. No answer.
You text him.
baby i think my water broke
matteo please call me
i’m serious
The little delivered checkmark mocks you.
You sit up slowly, breathing through the pressure building in your pelvis. The birthing class videos all said to stay calm. Take stock. Time contractions. Call your doctor. Don’t panic.
Those people had probably not been nine months pregnant, alone, without a car because their fiancé drove it to work, while their baby apparently decided tonight was a perfect night to make an entrance.
You call the hospital’s OB line and get told to come in.
You laugh a little, breathlessly, because yeah.
Great.
Perfect.
You pull on Mateo’s hoodie because it’s the closest thing within reach. It smells like laundry detergent and him, and that almost breaks you more than the pain. You shove your feet into sandals, grab your hospital bag from beside the door, and make it down exactly one flight of apartment stairs before your legs decide they are done negotiating.
The contraction hits like a fist.
You gasp, grab the railing, and your bag slips off your shoulder.
“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, okay, okay—”
Then your knees buckle.
You don’t fully fall. Not really. You sort of collapse sideways onto the stair landing, one hand locked around the railing, the other wrapped around your stomach like you can shield the baby from gravity by sheer force of will.
A door opens above you.
“Sweetheart?” Mrs. Alvarez from 3B says, voice sharpening. “Oh my God. Are you in labor?”
You try to answer.
What comes out is a sob.
She is already moving.
By the time the ambulance gets there, you are sweating through Mateo’s hoodie, trying not to scream in the hallway, while Mrs. Alvarez holds your hand and tells every EMS provider within a five-foot radius that your fiancé is a nurse and he works at the Pitt and his name is Mateo Diaz and somebody better find him.
You want to tell her that he keeps work separate. You want to tell her that nobody knows. You want to tell her Mateo is going to lose his mind.
But then another contraction hits, and all you can do is grip her hand harder.
The ambulance ride is bright and bumpy and terrifying.
One of the paramedics is kind, with tired eyes and a calm voice. He asks how far along you are. Your due date. If this is your first baby. If you’ve had bleeding. If you feel the baby moving.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, she’s moving. She’s—she’s really moving.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. We’re going to get you checked out.”
“I need Mateo.”
“We’ll find him.”
“He works there,” you say, almost angrily, because everyone keeps saying that like it fixes anything. “He works there and he’s not answering his phone.”
The paramedic glances toward his partner.
You see the look. The poor-girl look. The maybe-he’s-not-coming look.
You close your eyes and turn your face away.
By the time the ambulance doors open at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, the pain has teeth.
The ambulance bay lights flash overhead. A rush of cold air hits your face. Voices overlap.
“Twenty-six-year-old female, G1P0, approximately thirty-nine weeks, possible rupture of membranes at home, contractions about three minutes apart now—”
“Any bleeding?”
“Negative bleeding noted.”
“Vitals?”
“BP one-forty-two over eighty-eight, heart rate one-ten, satting fine, alert and oriented, near-syncopal episode on stairs, no abdominal trauma reported—”
You are rolled through the bay and into the Pitt, where everything is too loud and too familiar from Mateo’s stories.
You’ve heard about this place in fragments.
Not names, usually. Mateo is too careful for names. But you know the shape of it. The chaos. The board. The trauma rooms. The doctors who yell but care. The nurses who keep the whole place from burning down. The night shift that runs on caffeine, spite, and muscle memory.
And then you hear him. Not his voice. His laugh. Somewhere to your left, quick and warm and unmistakably Mateo.
Your head turns before you can stop it.
He is standing near the nurses’ station in black compression sleeves under his scrubs, a roll of tape hanging off two fingers, looking over his shoulder at something a doctor is saying.
For half a second, you just stare at him.
Your Mateo.
Your fiancé.
The father of your baby.
The man who forgot to answer his phone because the Pitt swallowed him whole.
“Mateo,” you try to say.
It comes out too small.
The paramedic raises his voice. “Anybody got OB?”
A nurse steps in beside your stretcher. “OB’s been paged. Let’s get her into a room.”
“Mateo,” you say again, louder this time, panic cracking through the syllables.
His head snaps up.
Everything stops on his face.
Not the room. The room keeps moving. The Pitt does not stop for anyone. But Mateo does.
The tape falls out of his hand.
He goes completely still.
His eyes move over you once, fast and clinical out of instinct—your face, your belly, the monitor straps, the wet fabric at your thighs, your white knuckles gripping the blanket.
Then the clinical part of him breaks.
“Baby?”
The nurse beside you glances at him.
Jack Abbott, who you recognize only because Mateo once described him as “night shift attending, weird energy, probably immortal,” turns from the foot of the stretcher. “Diaz, grab me a BP cuff that actually works and call OB again.”
Mateo doesn’t move.
Jack’s brows pull together. “Diaz.”
“I can’t,” Mateo says.
His voice sounds wrong.
Flat. Shattered.
Jack looks at him. “You can’t what?”
Mateo swallows hard. His face has gone pale under the fluorescent lights.
“I can’t work on her.”
The nurse at your side pauses for half a second.
Mateo looks at you again, and this time his whole face crumples.
“That’s my fiancée.”
The word lands like somebody dropped a metal tray.
For one suspended, impossible second, everyone looks at him.
Jack.
The nurse.
A resident standing near the doorway.
Someone at the desk.
Even you, through the pain, almost laugh because this is so not how you imagined meeting his coworkers.
Then Jack claps once, sharp and loud.
“Great. Congratulations. Everybody keep moving.”
The room snaps back into motion.
“Diaz, out of the way if you’re not staff on this case.”
Mateo jerks like he’s been slapped. “I’m not leaving her.”
“You’re also not touching her chart,” Jack says, firm but not cruel. “Stand by her head. Hold her hand. Be fiancé, not nurse.”
Mateo moves instantly.
He is at your side in two strides, taking your hand in both of his, bending over you so his forehead nearly touches yours.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m here, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my phone was in the break room, I didn’t—”
“You took the car,” you gasp, furious and crying and so relieved you can barely breathe.
“I know.”
“I was going to take the bus.”
His expression breaks harder. “You were what?”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Baby—”
“I called you.”
“I know,” he says, voice wrecked. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Another contraction rips through you, and you crush his hand so hard he actually winces.
Jack glances up from the foot of the bed. “Good grip. Respect.”
You would glare at him if you had the energy.
A nurse slips a blood pressure cuff around your arm. Someone places an IV. Someone else asks you questions you answer in fragments. Yes, first pregnancy. No complications except mild swelling. No bleeding. Yes, prenatal care. Yes, baby’s been moving. No allergies. No medications other than prenatal vitamins and iron.
Mateo answers the ones you can’t.
Your OB’s name.
Your due date.
The fact that you had slightly elevated pressures last week but labs were fine.
That you hate needles but pretend you don’t.
That you faint if people say the word episiotomy too many times.
“Mateo,” you snap.
He blinks. “What?”
“Do not tell them my business.”
Jack, without looking up, says, “That ship sailed when you came in crowning-adjacent wearing his hoodie.”
“I’m not crowning,” you say, horrified.
“Didn’t say you were. Said adjacent.”
You make a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
Mateo kisses your knuckles.
The OB resident arrives fast, hair pulled back, badge flipping as she steps into the room. She introduces herself, pulls on gloves, and takes over with a calm efficiency that makes the room feel less like a free fall.
They check you.
Six centimeters.
Your head falls back against the pillow. “Six?”
“That’s good progress,” the OB resident says. “Baby sounds good so far. We’re going to get you upstairs to labor and delivery.”
“Now?” Mateo asks.
Jack gives him a look. “No, Diaz, next Thursday.”
Mateo ignores him. His eyes are locked on you.
You can see the war in him. Nurse brain trying to calculate. Fiancé brain trying not to combust. Future father brain realizing this is no longer theoretical, no longer tiny socks and crib assembly and late-night jokes about diaper brands.
This is happening.
You squeeze his hand.
“I’m scared,” you whisper.
His face softens instantly. Everything else falls away.
“I know,” he says. “I know, but I’m right here.”
“You weren’t answering.”
“I will spend the rest of my life making that up to you.”
“You better.”
“I will.”
“You’re not allowed to pass out.”
He gives a shaky laugh. “I’m a nurse.”
“You’re also dramatic.”
Jack makes a low sound from the foot of the bed. “She’s got you there.”
Mateo looks over his shoulder. “Can you not?”
“Nope.”
The OB team gets you ready to move. The nurse unlocks the bed. Someone bags your belongings. Mateo refuses to let go of your hand, walking alongside the stretcher as they roll you out of the room.
The ED watches.
Not obviously. Not rudely. But everybody watches because Mateo Diaz, private, smooth, untouchable Mateo Diaz, is walking through the Pitt looking like his entire heart is being wheeled away on a stretcher.
A nurse at the desk whispers, “Fiancée?”
Someone else whispers, “He has a pregnant fiancée?”
A resident mutters, “He has a personality outside work?”
Jack hears it and points without looking. “Chart faster.”
At the elevator, Mateo leans down, pressing his mouth to your temple.
“I love you,” he says.
You close your eyes.
“I love you too.”
The elevator doors open.
Jack steps in after you.
Mateo looks at him. “What are you doing?”
“Escorting you upstairs before you try to come back down and pretend you’re capable of working,” Jack says.
“I’m fine.”
“You froze so hard I thought we were going to have to CT you.”
“I did not.”
“You dropped tape.”
Mateo looks personally wounded. “That could happen to anyone.”
Jack smiles thinly. “Sure.”
The elevator rises.
You breathe through another contraction, Mateo counting softly beside you because he knows you hate when people tell you to just breathe without giving you something to follow.
“In for four,” he murmurs. “Out for six. That’s it. You’re doing it.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate you a little.”
“I know.”
“You’re never touching me again.”
Jack looks at the ceiling.
Mateo nods seriously. “Completely fair.”
“I mean it.”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re getting snipped.”
Jack coughs into his fist. Mateo doesn’t even flinch. “We can talk about that after she’s here.”
“We’re talking about it now.”
“Okay.”
The doors open to labor and delivery.
The world changes.
The harsh churn of the ED gives way to a different kind of controlled chaos. Softer lighting. Warmer voices. Monitors. Nurses who look at you like they have seen every kind of panic and know exactly where to put it.
Mateo stays with you through all of it. He stays when they get you into a gown. He stays when you cry because the contractions get worse. He stays when you snap at him for touching your hair, then cry harder when he stops. He stays when you ask for the epidural and then change your mind and then ask again.
He stays when your blood pressure makes everyone pay closer attention for a while, when labs are drawn, when the OB attending comes in and talks through the plan in a voice that is calm but serious enough to make Mateo’s jaw tighten.
He stays.
He is not nurse.
He is not Mateo from the Pitt.
He is yours.
When the pain crests and you start to shake, he cups your face and talks you through it, forehead pressed to yours.
“You’re okay,” he says.
“I’m not okay.”
“You’re safe.”
“I don’t feel safe.”
“I know. But you are. I’ve got you. They’ve got you. She’s okay.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says, and there is steel in it now. “I’m watching the monitor. She’s okay.”
“You’re not supposed to nurse me.”
“I’m not. I’m fiancé-ing you with clinical awareness.”
Despite everything, you laugh.
It breaks into a sob halfway through, but he smiles like it counts.
Hours blur.
At some point, Jack disappears back downstairs after telling Mateo, “Do not come back to the ED tonight unless you’re holding a baby or actively dying.”
At some point, Mateo finally checks his phone and sees the missed calls, the texts, the photo Mrs. Alvarez sent of your abandoned hospital bag sitting in the hall.
At some point, he steps into the bathroom and you hear the water run for a long time.
When he comes back out, his eyes are red. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you noticing. Then everything gets serious.
Ten centimeters.
Pressure.
The room fills.
The OB nurse lifts one of your legs. Mateo takes the other side, looking absolutely terrified and absolutely determined.
“I can’t,” you cry after the first push, sweat slicking your hairline.
“Yes, you can,” he says.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“Mateo—”
“You can,” he says again, voice shaking but certain. “You are the strongest person I know. You got down a flight of stairs in labor because you were trying to get to our baby. You can do this.”
You sob.
He kisses your forehead.
“And I’m right here. I’m not missing it again. I swear to God, I’m right here.”
So you push.
And push.
And curse.
And cry.
And threaten his life in front of three nurses and an OB attending.
Mateo takes it all like a man accepting a holy punishment.
Then, suddenly, there is pressure and fire and a sound that tears out of you from somewhere ancient.
And then—
A cry.
A tiny, furious, wet cry.
The room shifts.
Your whole life shifts.
The OB lifts her up just enough for you to see a squirming, red-faced baby with dark hair plastered to her head and fists already clenched like she is offended by the concept of air.
Mateo makes a sound beside you.
Not a laugh.
Not a sob.
Something ruined and beautiful in between.
“She’s here,” he whispers.
They place her on your chest, warm and slippery and impossibly small.
Your hands shake as they come around her.
“Oh my God,” you breathe. “Hi, baby. Hi.”
Mateo bends over both of you, one hand covering the back of her tiny body, the other braced beside your shoulder like his knees might give out.
“She’s perfect,” he says, crying openly now. “She’s so perfect.”
You look up at him. His face is wrecked. You have seen Mateo scared before. Tired. Angry. Soft. Half-asleep and grumpy over burnt coffee.
You have never seen him like this.
Completely undone. Completely yours.
“Do you want to cut the cord?” the OB asks.
Mateo looks at you first.
You nod.
He does it with trembling hands.
Later, after stitches and checks and skin-to-skin and the first sleepy attempt at feeding, after the room empties and the world quiets down, Mateo climbs carefully into the bed beside you.
He is still in his scrub pants, his shirt wrinkled, his badge clipped crookedly to the pocket.
Your daughter sleeps against your chest in a tiny striped blanket, her face smushed into the most judgmental expression you have ever seen on a newborn.
“She looks like you,” Mateo whispers.
“She looks mad.”
“Exactly.”
You elbow him lightly.
He kisses your hair.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
Then you whisper, “Everyone knows now.”
Mateo is quiet.
You glance up. “Are you mad?”
His face changes immediately. “What? No.”
“You always wanted to keep us separate.”
“I wanted to protect this,” he says, touching one gentle finger to the edge of the baby’s blanket. “But I’m not ashamed of this. Of you. Of her.” His throat works. “Never.”
You look down at your daughter.
“She made a dramatic entrance.”
“She’s your daughter.”
“She ignored her due date and came when she wanted. That’s you.”
“She terrified an entire ED. That’s also you.”
You smile, tired and sore and overwhelmed.
He smiles back.
By the next afternoon, you are exhausted in a way that feels cellular.
The baby has a name now.
Sofia.
Sofia Elena Diaz.
Mateo says it like a prayer every time someone asks.
He changes her first diaper with the grave seriousness of a man performing a sterile procedure, then gags when she immediately ruins the clean one.
“You’re an ER nurse,” you say, watching him from the bed.
“That’s different.”
“You’ve seen intestines.”
“My daughter should respect me more than this.”
“She’s sixteen hours old.”
“She knows what she did.”
You laugh so hard your stitches hurt.
When discharge finally happens, Mateo looks like he might bubble wrap both of you if given access to supplies.
He checks the car seat straps three times.
He asks the postpartum nurse two different questions about normal newborn breathing even though he absolutely knows the answers.
He carries your bag, the diaper bag, the paperwork, and somehow still keeps one hand hovering near your back like you might vanish if he stops touching you.
“We have to go through the ED,” he says, a little too casually, as you wait for transport.
You raise an eyebrow. “Do we?”
“The exit’s faster that way.”
“Liar.”
He looks down at Sofia in her car seat.
“They want to meet her.”
Your chest softens.
“Oh, they do?”
He shrugs, suddenly shy. “Apparently the whole department has opinions.”
“About our baby?”
“About me having a secret baby.”
“You did kind of have a secret baby.”
“I had a secret fiancée and a private unborn child.”
“That sounds worse.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Jack already said that.”
By the time he wheels you through the ED, word has clearly spread. The Pitt tries to act casual. It fails spectacularly.
The night shift gathers in pieces, pretending they are definitely not abandoning tasks to hover near the hallway. Jack stands with a cup of coffee, looking smug. Shen appears beside him with the expression of someone about to say something unforgivable. Ellis leans against the desk. Lena, the night charge, has the warm, knowing face of someone who already heard every detail and decided Mateo is lucky to still be alive.
Mateo stops the wheelchair.
For once, he looks nervous at work.
Jack looks into the car seat first.
“Well,” he says, voice softer than you expect. “That’s a good baby.”
“She has a name,” Mateo says.
“I assumed.”
You smile down at her. “Sofia Elena.”
Lena’s face melts. “Oh, Mateo.”
Mateo clears his throat.
Shen leans in, hands behind his back like he is inspecting art. “Tiny Diaz has no idea her father is workplace lore now.”
“Don’t call her Tiny Diaz,” Mateo says.
“She entered through the ambulance bay and exposed your secret family,” Jack says. “She earned a title.”
Ellis smiles at you. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I had a baby.”
“Fair.”
A nurse you don’t know peeks over Mateo’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful.”
Mateo’s face changes.
That proud, stunned softness comes back, the one he wore upstairs when Sofia cried for the first time.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Jack looks between you and Mateo.
Then, in a voice dry enough to start a fire, he says, “So. Six years? Fiancée? Whole baby? Anything else you forgot to mention? Secret farm? Identical twin? Night job as a magician?”
You press your lips together.
Mateo exhales through his nose. “No.”
Shen lifts a finger. “Respectfully, I don’t believe you.”
Lena ignores them and squeezes your shoulder. “You did good, honey.”
The kindness almost makes you cry.
“Thank you.”
“And you,” she says, pointing at Mateo, “answer your damn phone.”
Mateo nods immediately. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jack takes a sip of coffee. “We’re all saving that tone for later, by the way.”
“Please don’t,” Mateo says.
“Oh, absolutely.” Sofia makes a tiny squeaking sound from the car seat.
Every single person goes quiet.
Mateo looks down like she has just delivered a keynote speech.
You look at him instead.
At your private man.
Your line-drawing, work-separating, home-protecting Mateo.
Standing in the middle of the Pitt with his whole life out in the open.
And he looks terrified.
But he also looks happy.
So happy it hurts.
He reaches down and brushes one knuckle over Sofia’s blanket.
“Ready to go home?” he asks you.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Jack steps back, clearing the way. “Go home, Diaz.”
Mateo grips the wheelchair handles. Then Jack adds, “And congratulations.” Mateo pauses. His shoulders soften. “Thanks.”
Shen grins. “Bring her back when she can roast you.”
“She’s not coming back here unless it’s for a non-emergency social visit,” Mateo says.
You glance up at him. “A non-emergency social visit to the ED?” He thinks about that. “Okay, no. Bad idea.”
You laugh, and he starts pushing you toward the exit.
Behind you, the Pitt goes back to being the Pitt. Phones ring. Monitors beep. Someone calls for a trauma room. Jack starts barking orders. Shen says something that makes Ellis groan.
But Mateo keeps walking.
Out of the fluorescent lights.
Out of the noise.
Toward the car.
Toward home.
Sofia sleeps through all of it, tiny and unimpressed, one fist curled beside her cheek.
Mateo gets you both loaded in like you are made of glass. He checks the car seat one more time. Then he closes the back door gently and comes around to your side before getting behind the wheel.
For a second, he just stands there, looking at you through the open passenger door.
“What?” you ask. His eyes shine again. “I’m taking my girls home.” Your throat tightens.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “You are.”
He leans down and kisses you carefully, soft and lingering. Then he rests his forehead against yours.
“No more buses,” he murmurs.
“No more missed calls.”
“No more missed calls,” he promises.
And for once, the line between work and home is not a wall.
Summary: Welp.. like the title said, a girl who's hungry for her hunk of an older boyfriend.
Warnings: sexual content ahead, daddy kink, age-gap relationship.
A/N: Lowkey the first time that my smut writing has been this in depth, feeling kind of nervous about it lol.
Anyways.. feedback is always welcome :).
If you have any one-shot ideas or fantasies about Jack Abbot that you want written out, let me know. Always down to make your delusions come true ;).
Hope you enjoy!! <3
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The delicious smell leaving the kitchen is drawing you in, checking up on Jack who’s making you dinner.
Coming to a halt in the door opening, you spot your boyfriend standing behind the stove. He’s stirring in a pot, the muscles in his back flexing as he does. You always find it extremely attractive whenever he takes care of you, like when he cooks you a meal, but now he’s doing it shirtless and oh.. it makes the whole scenario about ten times hotter.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Jack says after taking notice of you standing there. “Making your favorite, pasta bolognese.”
“Oh.. I’m hungry alright.” you tell him, eyes taking in his broad form before resting on his big biceps.
You’re ovulating.. which means it makes you absolutely feral. It’s not like you normally have a low sex drive, you and Jack are fucking nearly every day. However, when you’re ovulating.. you become even more horny then you usually are.
“Don’t give me that look,” Jack tells you, whipping the kitchen towel over his shoulder before grabbing his crutch that was resting against the counter. He leans on it as he turns his body a little to face you more. “Put those ‘fuck me’ eyes away.”
“Why?” you pout slightly, taking some steps forwards.
“This morning wasn’t enough for you?” Jack asks, referring to the two hours you spend messing around in bed before getting up.
“No,” you tell him, the way he’s standing there with his broad chest and shoulders on display is not helping your case. “You know m’ovulating. I can’t help it.”
A chuckle escapes Jack as he shakes his head softly at your words. Don’t get him wrong, he loves whenever you’re ovulating, it turns you feral and there’s nothing he enjoys more than taming you. “I made food, sweetheart. Can’t let it go to waste.”
“It won’t go to waste.” you are quick to say. “You can finish making the sauce, then we can reheat it later while boiling the pasta.” you explain.
“Are you serious right now?” Jack cocks a brow. “Can’t wait till after dinner?”
“No,” you take some steps forward, which closes the space between you and him completely. “S’your fault.. shouldn’t be looking this good,” you mutter as your hands roam up his arms and rest on his shoulders.
Jack lets out a soft sigh, looking down in your eyes as he takes hold of your chin. “You’re something else.. y’know that?” he tips your head back some more. “Gonna be the death of me.”
“Why’s that?” you tilt your head a bit to the side. “Because you’re an old man?”
“Oh?” Jack moves his hand lower, wrapping his fingers around your neck. “I’m an old man, now?”
“Uh-hu,” you give him a teasing nod. “One that can’t keep up with a young thing like me."
Jack lets out a bitter laugh, you know just what to say to drive him crazy. It makes his fingers tighten their grip on your neck a little. “Enough.” he says. “Go to our room. I’ll be there in a minute.”
An excited giggle leaves you before you rush out of the kitchen and towards the bedroom. You can’t help yourself with teasing Jack, it’s just so fun to rile him up. Also, he fucks you even better whenever he’s slightly agitated by your teasing.
Anticipation is filling up your body as you lay yourself down on the bed. You’ve taken off the oversized shirt of his you were wearing, leaving you bare chested. There’s just a black thong that’s still covering you.
Jack moves into the room, he doesn’t like wearing his prosthetic around the house so he usually moves around on his crutches. The sight of you laying on the bed is going straight to his cock, the desire he feels for you almost unbearable.
“Old man, huh?” Jack lets his crutches drop to the ground as soon as he has reached the bed. He takes hold of your legs before pulling you closer to the edge. “I’ll show you old..”
He’s quick to curl his fingers around the lining of your panties, pulling them down in a swift motion and discarding them on the floor. Jack lets his eyes trace over your body in awe, sometimes he still doesn’t believe how someone as beautiful as you could want a man like him.
“God.. you’re fucking perfect,” he mutters,
Those words, spoken out in that husky voice, go straight to your core. You can feel the ache for him grow between your legs, it makes you bite down on your lip as you look up at him.
“You need me, baby?” Jack asks you, leaning down some so he could be closer to you.
“Yeah..” a soft nod leaves you. When he gets close enough, you place a hand on his cheek and pull him into a kiss.
A hum escapes Jack as he feels his lips on yours, his eyes flutter close and he’s quick to kiss you back. At first, it’s tender.. but it’s quick to turn more passionate as the desire takes over. His tongue is playing a dangerous game with yours, taking in the way you taste.
Jack is the first to pull back, looking into your eyes as his hand moves up to cradle your face. “M’gonna fuck you so good.” he tells you, voice hushed, the feeling of his breath against your skin makes you shiver.
“Please-” a whine leaves you, making a smirk tug on his lips.
“You need it that bad, sweet girl?” Jack asks you, thumb grazing over your bottom lip.
“Uh-hu..” you nod at him, the ache for him pooling between your legs.
“Show me how bad.” Jack tells you.
Your lips part and you’re quick to take two of his fingers in your mouth, your tongue roaming around his digits before sucking down. Jack mutters a soft curse under his breath, the feeling mixed with the sight of how needy you are is making his cock only harder for you.
“You’re so filthy for it, aren’t you?” he says after seeing you coating his fingers in spit before sucking down on them again.
The nod of your head is not the reaction Jack wants out of you. “Use your words, baby.”
“Yes..”
“Yes, who?” Jack guides you to the answer he wants to hear.
“Yes, daddy.” you tell him, looking into his eyes.
God.. he loves it whenever you call him that. It’s something he didn’t know he was into until you came along. The first time you called him that while he was making you come, changed the entire way the two of you would dirty talk from then on.
“Atta girl,” he moves a hand down and fondles your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers which causes you to whimper out.
Jack lets his hands roam down your body, the feeling of his calloused fingertips against your skin turns you on even more. He presses another kiss against your lips before moving his head to leave a trace of kisses down into your neck.
A whimper escapes you at his actions, the feeling of his fingers moving further down combined with his lips on your skin is driving you crazy. Your body feels like it’s on fire with desire for him.
“Jesus.. you’re already dripping wet,” Jack observes as his fingers move down between your thighs. A soft moan escapes you as he touches you where you want it most.
The sight of your back arching before him, a gasp leaving you as he moves two fingers inside of you, it’s beautiful to Jack. You grip onto his arm, grounding yourself as his digits start pumping inside of you.
“Gonna make you come as much as I can.” Jack whispers, moving his head up to peck your lips. “Let’s see how you can keep up.” he mocks your words from earlier.
It doesn’t take long before the first knot starts forming inside your gut, you start squirming beneath his touch and it lets Jack know you’re close. He takes pride in how fast he can make you come, he was literally beaming the first time you told him that no other man had ever made you come that quickly.
Your orgasm ripples through you, a whiny moan escaping while you coat his fingers with your juices.
The look in Jack’s eyes turns darker, the lust nearly all consuming. He lets you ride out your high before removing his fingers, making eye contact as he puts them in his mouth so he can taste you.
“Want you, daddy.” a needy whine leaves you, hands on his arms.
Jack is quick to grab you by your waist, lifting you higher onto the bed. He takes off his sweatpants, letting them fall to the ground together with his boxers before following you, climbing on top. He holds himself up by resting on his elbows, face inching closer. Before going any further, he connects his lips back to yours.
A soft hum leaves you as your arms wrap around his neck, holding him close as the two of you kiss. When you feel his tongue trace your bottom lip, you open up your mouth a little so he could find his way inside. Your tongues are playing a heated game of exploring one another. The way you’re making out is passionate, you can feel his erection straining against your skin and it causes that ache to form back between your thighs.
“Ready for me, baby?” Jack questions, taking hold of his cock so he could brush his tip through your folds.
“Mhmm.. yes,” you nod eagerly, looking into his eyes with nothing other than desire and lust.
The sight of you so worked up is enough for Jack to want to wreck you. However, he holds himself back as he’s planning on teasing you some more. Payback.
A soft whimper leaves you as you feel him trace his cockhead back between your folds, so close to giving you what you want. You hate whenever he teases you, you’re so impatient and especially when you’re in a state like this. Eventhough you hate it, it also turns you on like crazy.
“Beg for it.” Jack tells you, hearing the needy sounds that are escaping you.
“Please..” you say as you look up into his eyes. “Please, daddy.”
“Gonna be a good girl for me?” he asks, flicking his tip against your clit which makes a soft whine leave your lips. “Tell me.”
“Yeah..” you nod at him. “M’gonna be so good, please-”
With one sharp trust, Jack makes his way inside of you. A gasp escapes you as your hands take hold of his shoulders. “Fuck-” your nails dig into his skin as you feel his cock spreading you open.
A soft groan escapes Jack’s lips as he watches you take him, back arching so beautifully for him. He takes hold of your thigh, lifting it up and making you wrap it around his waist. After placing a kiss against your lips, he starts moving his hips and thrusting inside of you.
A moan leaves your lips as he does, hands moving to his back so you could hold onto him. “Mhmm..”
“Yeah.. that feel good, baby?” Jack watches you nod and it makes a feeling of pride grow in his chest, he loves nothing more than pleasing you.
He hits you with deep strokes, his cock gliding through your gooey walls with ease. Jack’s on a mission to make you come at least two more times before he finishes himself. And everybody who knows Abbot, knows he’s determined once he’s set his goal in place.
As soon as you feel his fingers move down to your clit, you know it’s game over. He’s thrusting in and out of you with no mercy, hitting the right spot while his digits stimulate your clit. The moaning escaping you is like music to his ears, god.. he could listen to it forever without growing bored of it.
“Oh yes,” you whimper out, that bubble of pleasure building up inside of you and you know it’s about to burst at any moment.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” Jack moves his fingers faster which only makes you more sensitive, hips bucking up against his movements. “Like that?”
“Fuck yes,” you whine out, spreading your legs some more so Jack can easily keep his hips moving while his fingers work against your senstive nub.
“Come for me,” Jack spurs you on, eyes focused on the expression on your face.
A whine escapes you as your body tightens up, walls clenching around his cock which makes him curse out under his breath. Jack keeps going until you tip over the edge, cries leaving your lips as your body trembles slightly when pleasure flows through it.
“Atta girl,” Jack holds onto your legs as he watches you come down from your high, the blissful look in your eyes causing that sense of pride in him once more.
When he leans down to bring his lips back to yours, you let out a hum and close your eyes. Your lips move against his, kissing him back softly. “Thank you,” you mumble.
“You’re welcome, baby.” Jack smiles before pressing another kiss against your lips. “Ready for one more?”
“Yeah..” you give him a soft nod.
Jack holds onto your legs, moving them up so he could place them over his shoulders. His actions make his cock move deeper inside of you, a whimper leaving you as your nails dig into his shoulders.
After kissing you once more, Jack starts thrusting back inside of you. A moan rolls over your lips as you feel him move deeply. You hold onto his shoulders, grounding yourself as you take every stroke he gives you.
“Mhm.. daddy,” you whimper out. “Feels so good.”
A groan escapes Jack as you call him that, he looks back into your eyes and picks up the pace at which his hips are moving.
The room fills up with the sounds of you moaning out and Jack’s skin slapping against yours. He’s pounding into you, balls deep, hitting the top of your cervix with every thrust. You’re a mess, already sensitive from coming twice so you know it won’t take long before he gets you there again.
“Fuck-” you cry out softly as a shift of his hips makes him hit the spot perfectly. “Right there,”
“Yeah?” his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he holds you still, hitting that spot over and over again.
“Oh my-” your eyes roll to the back of your head as the feeling gets nearly overwhelming.
“You feeling it, sweetheart?” Jack grunts out. “Don’t hold back, want to feel you come on my cock.”
It doesn’t take much longer after that before your body tightens up, so close to getting that intense feeling of pleasure. Jack leans in some more and sucks down onto your nipple, giving that final touch which makes you come undone.
Soft cries fill the room as pleasure bursts inside of you, holding onto him as your body trembles.
“Good girl,” Jack plants a kiss against the side of your head and slows down his strokes. He guides you through the waves of your orgasm that’s slowly washing away.
A trembled breath leaves you as Jack wipes some sweaty strands of hair out of your face, he gives you some time to collect yourself together which is much needed. The way he turns sweet after he makes you come will always melt your heart, his soft touches and kisses make you feel so loved every time.
“Think you can give me one more?” Jack asks as he looks into your eyes, thumb brushing against your jawline.
“I think so,” you give him a nod while smiling which makes him give you a smile back.
“Good.. because this one is going to be intense.” he says, pressing a kiss to your lips before positioning himself again.
You watch as he folds your legs over your head, leaning over and working his hips. His thrusts hit deep, your sensitive core aching as it’s hyper sensitive from previous orgasms. Jack doesn’t give you much time to get used to him, pretty soon he’s back to pounding himself inside of you.
“Fuck..” you whine out, nails digging into his back which makes him groan out.
“Feel how deep inside of you I am, baby?” Jack asks you, voice husky and eyes dark as he stares into yours.
“Yes,” you let out a whimper and feel his hand wrapping around your neck again, pushing you deeper into the mattress.
Soft cries fill up the room as Jack keeps on pounding into you, you’re so sensitive from his earlier actions that you can barely take what he’s giving you. You grip onto his shoulders as your moaning mixed with Jack’s grunts are filling up the room.
“Oh my god-” you cry out softly, so sensitive that you can hardly take it anymore. “I can’t-"
“You can, baby.” Jack presses a kiss to your lips before lifting up your chin so you’d look in his eyes. “You’re so good for me, always are.. you can take it,” he tells you, following that up with another kiss. “Just a little more.”
A whine rolls over your lips as Jack pushes even deeper inside of you, keeping hold of your face so you’d look him into his eyes. It doesn’t take long before you feel that pressure building up inside of your gut, a whimper escaping you.
“M’gonna come again, daddy..” you cry out softly.
“I’m close too,” Jack grunts out as he tries to hold himself back, needing to feel you come before he does. “Come for me, baby.”
“Mhmm..” your body tightens up and you grip onto his arms before you feel pleasure explode, moving through your entire body which makes you cry out and tremble.
As soon as Jack feels you clench your walls around him, he’s done for. A deep groan escapes him as he spills himself inside of you, holding onto your trembling legs.
“Fuck..” his body falls onto yours, completely spent. “That was good.”
“Tell me about it,” you sigh out, legs still trembling softly from the intensity of your orgasm. You move a hand up to cradle the back of his head, holding him close to you as your other arm wraps around him. “I take back my words.. you can keep up with me just fine.”
Jack lets out a chuckle as he moves his head up and looks you into your eyes. “Told you.”
Summary: A casual lunch accidentally reveals a secret you never mentioned. You're married to Dr. Park, leaving your coworkers completely shocked.
A/N: Requests are welcome! This work is entirely mine and has been proofread with Grammarly.
Masterlist
Lunch breaks in the emergency department were practically non-existent. Between the hustle and bustle of trauma and patients cycling in and out, it was hard to find a moment to breathe, let alone to eat.
Today was a rare day.
Robby had practically ushered the four of you out of the ED the moment things settled down, arms crossed like a proactive dad who ensures his children eat their supper. He promised to page if a rush happened or if the med students screwed something up.
It wasn’t slow, but it was the closest thing the ED would ever see.
You sat down at a small table in the corner of the cafeteria with Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi, finally excited to eat.
The second the food hit the table, the conversation that was once flowing slowly turned into a debate.
“This is insane,” Whitaker said, staring at his receipt like it had offended him. “Why is a sandwich seven dollars? In a hospital, of all places.”
Javadi leaned over to look. “It’s literally bread and ham. That’s it.”
“Don’t forget disappointment,” Santos added, already halfway through hers like she had accepted defeat.
Whitaker huffed, leaning back in his chair. “How are residents supposed to survive on this? My salary barely covers my loans.”
“They expect you to run on spite and caffeine,” you said calmly, taking a bite of your sandwich.
Whitaker leaned back in the plastic chair. “And don’t even get me started on families. People sitting here stressed and grieving, trying to eat, and it costs this much?”
Javadi scoffed lightly. “Sorry, your father has heart failure, but would you like to buy a six-dollar coffee to cope?”
“Hospital capitalism is its own disease,” Santos muttered.
A round of tired agreement followed, chairs creaking, and wrappers crinkling as the exhaustion lingered over the table.
Santos turned to you. “Okay, but you're weirdly calm about this. Don’t you care about our wallets?”
Three pairs of eyes landed on you at once.
You blinked, then shrugged slightly. “I don’t really think about it.”
Whitaker frowned. “How do you not think about it?”
You took another bite, unbothered. “I just charged it to my husband’s account.”
There was silence.
You couldn’t tell whose jaw dropped first, Santos or Javadi's, but for two people who never stopped talking, they went completely quiet.
Whitaker looked between the two, trying to process exactly what you had just said. “Did she just–”
At the same time, Santos blurted, “You're what?”
“My husband’s account,” you repeated casually. You hadn’t paid for your lunch since you started working here.
Javadi blinked. “You have a husband?”
“Yeah,”
Whitaker slowly sat forward in his chair, as if the world had shifted slightly. “Since when?”
“A couple of years now.”
Santos was still in a state of shock. “We work with you every day.”
“I know,”
“And you never mentioned a husband?”
You tilted your head. “You guys have also never asked.”
Whitaker let out a short laugh. “You don’t even wear a ring.”
You lifted your hand briefly. “Work hazard.”
Javadi leaned in now, curiosity fully activated. “So your husband just pays for everything?”
“Well, no,” you corrected. “I just forget my card sometimes, so it’s easier. He’ll handle it.”
Santos slowly leaned back in her chair, processing. “Okay. I need context.”
You hesitated just a fraction too long, and that was enough.
Santos narrowed her eyes. “Oh, my god. Don’t tell me it’s someone here.”
“No freaking way,” Whitaker shook his head. “We would totally know if it was someone here.”
Javadi frowned slightly. “Would we though?”
Whitaker opened his mouth, then paused, glancing around the cafeteria like he was suddenly reconsidering the entire staff list. “I mean… There are tons of doctors who work here.”
“Exactly,” Javadi said. “Half of them barely come down to the ED. We wouldn’t know.”
Santos, however, didn’t look convinced.
She was staring at you now, like really staring, as if she was trying to piece something together in her mind. “Oh no”
You tried very hard to keep your expression straight, but you couldn't help but the small smirk that crept on your face.
Santos leaned forward, pointing her fork at you. “Oh, we definitely know him.”
Whitaker blinked. “What?”
“I’ve seen that face before,” she continued, gesturing vaguely at you. “That little—” she squinted, mimicking it poorly, “smirk you do when you’re hiding something.”
Javadi’s eyes widened. “She’s right.”
Santos didn't take her eyes off you. “Who is it?”
You hesitated, glancing between the three of them, already knowing exactly how this was about to go. It’s not like you haven't heard them complain about him before.
“...Promise you won’t hate me?”
Javadi leaned in. “Please don’t say, Robby.”
Santos made a face. “Oh my god, if it’s Robby, I’m transferring.”
You snorted. “It’s not Robby.”
Whitaker let out a breath. “Okay, good.”
Santos waved her fork at you. “Alright, then who is it?”
You exhaled, already bracing for impact. You looked between them.
“...Brendon Park.”
The table went silent.
Whitaker froze. “No.”
Javadi blinked. “Oh, my god.”
Santos didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. “You’re married to Dr. Park.”
You nodded.
Whitaker ran a hand over his face. “The ortho surgeon who hates everyone?”
“Not everyone,” you teased.
They all stared at you.
“He’s not like that all the time. That’s just work.”
Santos blinked. “A work thing?”
You nodded. “He’s like an ortho god here. At home, he's just Brendon.”
Whitaker shook his head. “That man barely tolerates people.”
You huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, well. He tolerates me.”
There was a moment where you searched for the right words, something that might help them understand. They only knew one side of him. You knew both. Normally, you didn’t feel the need to explain it, but here it felt necessary.
“‘Park the Shark’ is for here,” you said lightly. “That’s him in the OR, in the hospital, doing all that intense surgical work.”
Santos snorted. “Park the Shark is insane, by the way.”
You smiled. “Well, yeah, he got his name somehow.”
Whitaker leaned forward slightly. “And at home?”
You shrugged, but your voice softened just a little.
“He’s just Brendon,” you said, “He’s normal. He lives on coffee and reality television and steals my food even when he is not hungry. He’s there for anything that I need.”
Javadi tilted her head. “That sounds like a different person.”
“It’s not,” you said simply. “I just get the better version.”
Santos studied you for a second. “So you’re telling me Dr. ‘I intimidate half the hospital’ Park is just completely different at home.”
You shrugged again, but there was a small, fond smile you couldn’t quite hide.
Whitaker was staring at you like he was trying to rewrite everything he thought he knew.
Javadi’s brows were slightly furrowed, like she was mentally replaying every interaction she’d ever had with him.
Santos just leaned back, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t believe you.”
You only smiled.
Before anyone could say anything else—
All of your pagers went off.
The moment shattered.
Whitaker groaned, already pushing his chair back. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Break’s over,” Javadi muttered, grabbing her things.
The ED had settled back into its usual rhythm of controlled chaos.
Lunch break seemed far behind in your mind as you went from treatment room to treatment room.
You were at the nurses' station, finishing up a chart while Santos, Whitaker, and Javai lingered nearby, pretending to be busy while the conversation from lunch was still very much alive in the air.
Santos was mid-sentence when she suddenly stopped.
Her eyes shifted past you.
“..Oh?”
Whitaker frowned. “What?”
Javadi followed her line of sight in the elevator and immediately went quiet.
You didn't even look up; their reaction had said it all.
Brendon Park walked in like he owned the place, his cold and controlled composure completely unaffected by the noise around him.
He stepped up to the station. “Room?” he asked.
One of the nurses answered, pointing down the hall to one of the trauma rooms.
He gave a short nod and continued without another glance.
Whitaker leaned in slightly. “Yeah… she’s really married to that guy.”
Santos shook her head. “Still don’t get why.”
You just kept typing.
The hallway was less chaotic than the rest of the ED.
Still, staff were walking through, and patients were waiting on beds, but it settled enough that you could relax momentarily.
You leaned back against the wall, chart in hand, exhaling slowly.
A door opened.
Brendon stepped out, already pulling off his gloves, attention still half on the patient he’d just seen.
He was focused. Clearly thinking ahead of the upcoming surgery, he was about to perform.
He started walking, but when he noticed you, he slowed his pace until he was next to you.
You pushed off the wall, a smile already forming. Out of the corner of your eye, you swore you saw three heads pop up.
“Hey.”
Everything about his demeanour shifted.
“Hey,” he said, lighter, just for you.
He stepped closer, close enough that your hands brushed.
“You okay?” he asked, scanning your face.
You nodded, but it was the kind of nod that didn’t fully convince him.
“Just a long shift.”
His gaze lingered, reading you like a chart.
“Did you eat?”
You huffed. “Yes.”
He didn’t believe you.
You rolled your eyes a little, reaching up without thinking to fix the collar of his scrub top as it had folded in on itself. “I had a sandwich."
His brows lifted slightly.
“I promise,” you added.
Brendon held out his pinky.
“Are you serious?” You couldn't get over the ridiculousness of your husband wanting to pinky promise over a sandwich.
You laughed under your breath, hooking your finger with his. “My friends are watching.”
He leaned in just slightly, voice low.
“Oh, I know,” he murmured. “I can feel them staring.”
And sure enough, when you turned three heads, you immediately ducked out of sight down the hall.
